LAKE MEDOTA IS ALMOST STILL

The ash gray lake is almost still

except for the gentle wake

of a distant speed boat.

Fisherman drift along side

the drop-off just south of Governor’s Island.

Not one pole bends from northern or bass.

As our boat drifts toward Warner Bay,

seagulls float close to clouds.

Two turkey vultures hover

like A-framed black kites

above the oak wooded shore.

A carp jumps just off the bow.

We all turn our heads to see.

To our west black clouds roil and churn.

We should turn back, call it a day.

 

A year ago a girl fell from a boat here.

We were close by when it happened.

Eighty foot drop-off—she never came up.

A Ho Chunk chief cursed this lake

more than a hundred years ago.

Swimmers die every summer.

 

A sailboat sporting a pirate flag

glides ghostlike beside us.

Our senses soak up the coming storm,

ingesting the omens around us.

A flash of lightening lacerates the sky.

Thunder resonates across the water.

Slate curtains of pounding rain

race across Maple Bluff toward us.

Thirty minutes back to our pier—

I should have read the signs.

I rev the motor and race full throttle

against the sudden wrath of wind.

Fiendish whitecaps blow up like demons.

Rogue waves spout and splash over gunwales.

We have waited too long.

Don’t we always wait a little too long?